Hannibal X - We'll have to see if your idea comes to pass...
Deamon - Eh, that was me having fun with the character, no more. All sorts of reasons could be offered why supposed members of the Emperor's Hand were so incompetent (Bardas not maintaining them properly, the competent members following Albrecht out instead of staying in the capital), but it boils down to it just sounded like a fun scene, as implausible as it might have been.
Issac Wolfe - There are multiple shades of purple...
More story is coming!
Qorten - A good/just/capable ruler would know when its appropriate to be a tyrant, and when its appropriate to give a little. As much as people love him, not even Manuel was able to do that (he leaned often too much on the tyrant side). If that's the definition of a formidable ruler, none of the Komnenids have 100% matched it so far...
The_Archduke - He lives!
Vesimir - I truly wonder what Manuel would have to say about the state of the empire after what his descendants have wrought...
”Sicily is the key to Italy, and Africa. Under no circumstances should the island be allowed to fall.” – attributed to Demetrios
Megas
From Judith Butler’s A Brief History of the Roman Empire, Volume 5:
…On Bardas’ death, his carefully gathered legions remained camped in Antalya, rudderless, unsure of what to do. Their commanders hoped that Antemios might come and lead them in person, but all hopes on their Emperor doing his imperial duty were unfounded.
For Antemios was no where to be found.
Later, the eldest son of Thomas II would turn up, family in tow, in the court of Malcom III of Scotland, seeking refuge. The would-be Emperor had been frightened by the hungry mobs of Konstantinopolis, and the very targeted assassination of so powerful a man as Bardas Komnenos had convinced Antemios he had best keep his time in relatively undefended Chrysopolis to a minimum. Add to this, apparently the agents of his brothers could sneak into mass army encampments to do their dirty work. Thus, during the dead of night on May 6th, 1239, Antemios Komnenos and his family climbed onto a ship destined for Marseilles, with the intent of seeking asylum in France. Perhaps the cowardly Komnenos was hoping that some combination of foreign arms could place him back on the throne. Perhaps, now that his patron was dead, he wanted little to do with the throne to begin with. As Antemios left little of his own hands detailing his motivation, we can only question why.
Yet no sooner had the Emperor, his wife and three sons set foot on French soil were they informed that they had already overstayed their welcome. King Arnaud had been badly beaten by Emperor Nikephoros at Sant-Emilion, just outside of Bordeaux. Antemios and his family were advised to travel northwards as quickly as possible. If the legends are to be believed, the once Emperor of the Romans made the trek by himself, disguised as a merchant named Yves, until he reached the Scottish border. The further misadventures of Antemios Komnenos and his descendants are worth more time than can be afforded in these scant pages—if one is truly interested, I would recommend Phillip Levalier’s
The Scottish Komnenids: Stewards and Kings—it is a fine piece of scholarship.
However, our story lies to the south and east. At the news that Emperor Antemios was no where to be found, the surviving
strategoi of Bardas Komnenos’ host convened a council of war on May 23rd. There, they split into two camps—Romanos Diogenes led a contingent that wished to settle with Gabriel, while Iago Viscaya led a group that advocated using the massed armies for darker means. Those that wanted to settle won out, and on the arrival of the joint forces of Gabriel, Thomas and Adrianos of Edessa on June 3rd, the immense expeditionary force assembled carefully by Bardas laid down its arms.
The terms of the Emperors were lenient, if the chroniclers were to be believed. The commanders who had supported appeasement were handsomely rewarded—Romanos Diogenes, for example, was named the new Prince of Apulia, a new
theme that would’ve seen Bardas’ old joint combination fo Apulia and Calabria split in twain. 40,000 of this vast host were handed to Adrianos of Edessa, who was charged to re-secure southern Italy from Bardas’ son Michael. The remainder of Bardas’ force was stripped of arms and armor, and told to make its way home if possible. The commanders who had supported continuing the fight were stripped of their red cloaks, and crowded on the ship
Hagia Eirene waiting in the quays of Antalya. The ship never made it back to Italy.
Meanwhile, Gabriel, Thomas and the remaining forces of the loyalist army then marched on Konstantinopolis. For the previous year, the city had been effectively under siege. The Great Flood Tide, as the disastrous tsunami of 1238 was called, had effectively, if temporarily, cut the imperial capital off from her grain supplies as harshly as an invading horde. Thus, when Thomas III an Gabriel I jointly arrived outside the walls of the Queen of Cities, they did so not just with an imperial cavalcade, but wagonloads of grain for the grateful residents. Unsurprisingly, the Fortress of Christendom eagerly threw its gates open, accepting the brothers as joint Emperors as easily as they’d accepted Antemios barely a year before.
Chroniclers love to devote vast tracts of parchment to the entry of the Imperial brothers into the city. It was a glorious affair, that everyone could agree on. The vast parade was led by the two Emperors in person, Thomas dressed in a rich red tunic with blue, a gift from the suddenly humble city
Prefect. Beside him rode Emperor Gabriel, dressed in full parade regalia—golden armor, looted from Bardas’ defunct supply train, the spear the
Megaloprepis used when riding to Rome, astride an enormous black stallion that pranced regally through the streets. Behind the three came the architect of the sudden, relatively bloodless victory—Albrecht von Franken, simply clad in black, the only sign of his great rank being the enormous gold chains that hung around his neck.
Doubtless on other triumphal entries, the populace would have been awed by the display of martial power that followed—Gabriel’s three
tagmata of the Imperial Guard, a menagerie of animals (borrowed from Adrianos Komnenos), interspersed with troupes of Latin and Greek troubadours singing the praises of the two joint rulers of the Empire. However, the crowds stood silent yet eager, despite the blazing sun, and craned their heads, stamped and cheered for no performer, no cataphract in shining armor, but a dull, quiet rumble that had been absent from the city for far too long.
The trundle of grain carts, hundreds of them, pouring into the city.
Von Franken had cautioned this would be the most delicate part of the procession—keeping the eager, waiting Konstantinopolis crowd from turning into a mouth-watering mob. As a result, Gabriel had assigned 10,000 of the new
politikoi the job of guarding the grain wagons and distributing the grain. According to legend, they performed their job simply and ruthlessly—anyone that stepped out of the line to receive free bread was ordered to the rear, and if they didn’t comply, various
politkoi either set the mob on the cheaters, or threatened to cut them down with their own arms.
However, the joint Emperors had little time to settle into the Queen of Cities, for disturbing news would soon arrive from the East—from India to the lands of the Rus, Mongol
tumen were being pulled back to the distant city of Karakorum. Something utterly enormous and thunderously powerful was brewing in the East. A great hammer was about to fall…
…and the Empire could only hunker down, and prepare to weather the oncoming storm…
July 8th, 1239
Nikephoros IV, Emperor of the Romans in the West, felt absolutely exuberant. The smell of rose oil still wafted from the fine raiments of a conquering hero, the host of the first ever triumph held in the city of Cordoba. He’d vanquished the veteran King of France, and had enough time to ensure he returned to his capital on this, his eighteenth birthday. Casually, he swirled a richly decorated goblet in his hand—a spoil taken from the camp of King Arnaud. Inside, clear water sloshed back and forth, its gurgling barely heard above the bustle of the city of Cordoba streaming through the windows. Drinking wine was something only drunken louts and barbarians did. Water was Nikephoros’ drink of choice.
Across from the Emperor sat the second most powerful man in the West, still clad in the tunic and cloak that saw him and his entourage return to the Queen of the West earlier that morning as well. Louis Salah did not look anywhere near his fifty years of age—indeed, the
Megosvizieros looked scarcely past forty. Setting between them on the ebony table that dominated Nikephoros’ private study was a stack of documents and letters—the most important affairs of state that waited the Emperor’s approval on his return.
“You have a good journey?” Nikephoros asked. Salah had travelled to and returned from Konstantinopolis far faster than Nikephoros had expected—that meant either very good or very bad news.
“Productive,” Salah admitted, shuffling the parchments idly. “Both sides made the requisite noises they would support a Patriarchate, though now that Bardas is dead and his armies have evaporated, there’s little reason for us to send our promised troops.”
“Well, Michael still holds out in Italy,” Nikephoros muttered. Merchants from Barcelona spoke of a great battle near Napoli, where the son of Bardas surprisingly managed to deliver a stinging defeat on Adrianos of Edessa. Both sides were tired and bloodied, and likely not capable of combat for the rest of the year at best. Nikephoros could only look on in scorn—he would’ve smashed Michael’s smaller armies to a pulp with ease. “Things seem to be falling in line for the Patriarchate, from your letters. Any other news from Konstantinopolis?”
“It appears that the newest Empress has little use or interest in her husband,” Louis went on.
“Use? Or interest?” Nikephoros pressed. An adulterous empress was automatically an affair of state—one that Nikephoros could exploit to his own ends, should the situation ever arise.
“Interest,” Salah replied. “Oh, there was a great deal of interest at one point, from what my agents tell me. Though,” he grinned at his own caveat, “they also say if one is walking and has the proper equipment, Frederica is interested. All indications are that on their wedding night, Emperor Thomas did not lay with his wife—she evidently ranted about him wanting to finish drawings instead of… slaking her desires,” Salah’s smile turned into a lascivious grin. “There were fights between the two over his lack of interest. Apparently, though, the night of the triumphal entry into Konstantinopolis, her harping wore him down.”
Nikephoros sighed, swirling the water in his goblet around. “So?”
“Well, after that night, she wants nothing to do with his bed. I saw with my own eyes—she looks at him with fearful eyes when he enters the room. However, by the time I left, it was apparent she was with child.”
“An adulterous empress that is afraid of her otherwise meek husband,” the Emperor took a gulp of the water. “A political scandal in the making. I want some agents keeping a tab on her movements, her doings. If she’s as…interested… in men as you say, we shouldn’t have a problem.” Catching a cheating Empress would be the political equivalent of finding a gold mine—it could be used for blackmail, a method to gain the Emperor’s trust…
“Yes, Your Majesty. Next, I have discovered something a little unsettling. It appears the Mongol prepares to invade Persia,” Louis said.
“The Mongol?”
That raised all sorts of possibilities!
“Yes. Apparently, and this is from some of the people I know in the offices of Lord von Franken,” Louis hastily added, “There have been some disturbances in the network of grain supplies on the edges of Persia. Some of the grain his agents routed there has turned up missing. Smugglers have been shipping it north and east, to a place named Kashgar.”
Nikephoros rolled the name around in his mouth of a moment. It
sounded distant and exotic.
“Kashgar, Majesty, is directly in the hands of the Mongol.”
“Ah, so von Franken keeps his thumb on the vein of war?” Nikephoros smiled. “Do they have any idea of how many will show?”
“A vast host, was all I heard of the current guess,” Salah said. Nikephoros grunted—it wasn’t likely his eastern cousins would let slip such a number, even if they knew. If the West knew how many Mongols were coming, a Latin, or Nikephoros himself, could have used the information for designs on Italy or Africa…
“A pity. Most of the my cousin’s armies will be tied down in the East then,” Nikephoros poured himself yet another cup of water. “Just means Michael will last a few months longer. How many did the Mongols use last time, when Gabriel so thoroughly beat them about the head?”
“50,000 or so?” Salah shrugged. “I don’t recall the exact amounts, but it was a good number. It’s safe to assume if they are coming again, it will be with a far more substantial force. I would.”
“Hmmm… oh well. Next stack, the domestic letters. What do we have?” Nikephoros asked.
“First,” Salah announced, “a letter from Simon de Gilbert, Bishop of Santiago…”
“Pah!” Nikephoros grumbled. The man was a descendant of the Norman English who had first taken Asturias during the Spanish Crusades of the
Megaloprepis, a fact he never let
anyone forget. His pride was only matched by his supposed piety. The man was truly well versed in the ways of God (even if he did not follow a commandment or two), but to raise an unknown to be Bishop of Santiago? That screamed the hand of the Pope in Hamburg. “What does the good Lord Bishop want now?”
“He humbly brings to your attention,” Salah’s words rang hollow and sarcastic, “that Your Majesty has yet to contribute any donations to the funds for a reliquary for the remains of St. James, St. Matthew, St. Thomas, or St. Bartholomew. He begs me to remind you that these men were apostles of Christ, and…”
Nikephoros raised a hand, and sighed. The finger bone and cloak of St. James were ever so conveniently found in Santiago,
after the arrival of Lord Bishop Simon de Gilbert. Nikephoros would never have been the first to judge against the words of a man of God, but when one had to add so many disclaimers before the name Simon de Gilbert…
“I’m sure our coffers could spare 1,000 silver for reliquaries to the Blessed Matthew in Carthage, Blessed Thomas in Samarra, and Bartholomew in… where did they find those again?”
“A city called Mazadaram, Majesty,” Salah provided the strange Persian name with nary a stumble or twist of his tongue.
“Mazadarram,” Nikephoros repeated, his tongue not nearly as adept. “Fine. A thousand for that too, even though if I recall my Biblical apostles correctly, didn’t Bartholomew go to
India, not Persia?”
“Perhaps the Blessed Bartholomew was returning to Jerusalem, and went to God on the return journey,” Salah smiled sweetly and sarcastically.
“Ha!” Nikephoros gave a brief, sarcastic laugh. So after his request,
everyone was in the Patriarch business?
“And what of Santiago?”
“I’d almost forgotten,” Nikephoros said, a thin frown on his face. “200 silver
solidii, of only to shut the good Bishop’s mouth.”
“Very well,” Louis smiled slightly at his master’s discomfiture, “Another letter,” Salah said, pulling out the last piece of parchment from the day’s news. “Shipping concerns from Barcelona,” Salah said. “They are angry about new levies being raised in imperial Carthage on their ships using harbor. They also complain that Sicilian grain is undercutting their own goods in Italy.”
“Toss that one aside,” Nikephoros leaned back and grumbled. “I’m an Emperor, not God. Anything else?”
“The matter of Maurice de Bracy…” Louis plunged into a subject he would’ve normally cautiously tiptoed around.
“de Bracy!” Nikephoros fairly spat in anger. The year before, the Emperor had smashed the rebellion of the Duke of Asturias and compelled the Duchy of Valenica into line, but he hadn’t had a chance yet to completely revamp those “duchies” into proper
themes. The chief obstruction to this were the knights and lords who
hadn’t marched out with the Duke of Asturias to his doom, who claimed that legally the feudal system still existed, and they, having kept their feudal obligations to Cordoba, should expect their rights to remain. Maurice de Bracy, Baron of Pamplona and self-titled ‘Duke of the Latins in Spain,’ was chief among these… malcontents. Yet another Norman descendant. “What is he whining about now?”
“He reminds Your Majesty,” Louis grinned broadly, “that you are required under feudal obligation to make a gift to the city of Pamplona each year, per the agreements between Your Majesty’s ancestor Emperor Alexios, and de Bracy’s ancestor, the Count Henry.”
“Why should I?” Nikephoros huffed. De Bracy had not joined with the Duke, that was to be sure, but neither had he raised a
finger against the rebel! Nikephoros could only assume it was because de Bracy hoped that, once the dust cleared, he would be elevated no matter who won…
“I… well, Majesty,” Louis’ smile somehow grew broader, “I have an idea on how to settle the matter of de Bracy, Majesty.”
“Well, don’t stand there smiling like a dolt. Tell me,” Nikephoros groused.
“I can have one of my agents approach His Excellency Bishop de Gilbert and suggest that, in light of the inaction of Hamburg, it might be his Christian duty to call on good Christian men of arms to defend the holy relics of St. Bartholomew.” Salah folded his hands, face looking down but eyes looking coyly at his master, “After all, the Romans will need as much help as possible. Perhaps, Your Majesty, the bishops of the North could call on the good knights of those lands to sail to Persia, to help your cousin?”
Nikephoros’ smiled slightly. Yes, that would certainly get rid of the brat de Bracy—he’d probably be one of the leaders of the horde. “I’m not so sure my cousin would regard those knights and their retainers as a boon, Louis. And how would we get de Gilbert to go along with this? Hamburg hasn’t moved,” Nikephoros shifted uneasily in the wooden chair. “If he was wise he wouldn’t either.”
“He’ll agree,” Salah steepled his fingers and sighed. “ de Gilbert is, above all, a
practical man,” Louis smiled slightly. “He’ll see urging the knights of the north to depart to save the relics of St. Bartholemew as a stepping stone to something grander—Patriarch, Pope?” Salah shrugged slightly. “Who knows? As Bishop of Santiago, he is the spiritual leader of the Latins in Spain. If he makes an appeal, the other bishops will likely follow suit—at worst, they’ll assume Hamburg is behind the call, as Hamburg was behind his appointment. As for de Bracy…”
“…ah, yes. He’ll likely come to me, asking leave of his responsibilities as a vassal to go on Crusade,” Nikephoros smiled, filling in the gap. The stupid Latin feudal arrangements would be turned on their heads! “I’ll agree to him and all others that go… hell,” Nikephoros looked at Louis, excitement building, “I could offer to maintain their lands for them while they were gone…”
“I sense there is an idea building in your head, Your Majesty,” Salah nodded slightly with a curious smile.
“Yes, there is! How many of the northern Latins will go with him? Since he’s the self-proclaimed ‘Duke’ of the Latin north, he surely would have to lead the expedition, as his glory and honor are on the line?”
“But of course. Depending on how much de Gilbert riles them up, perhaps as many as 3-4,000 knights, who will likely take squires, servants, men-at-arms with? Perhaps 20,000 in total?”
“Excellent,” Nikephoros smiled. 20,000 armed enemies gone from the north of his realm was something any monarch would be pleased with, but Nikephoros wasn’t done. No, not yet. Michael still in Sicily, Adrianos there as well, both parties weakened by battle? “Now, Louis, I want you to tell our contacts in the shipping firms of Barcelona to find some way to raise their prices once de Bracy and his mob arrive, wanting passage to the Holy Land…”
“..but won’t that interfere…” Salah’s smile disappeared into a look of confusion.
“I’m merely taking your idea and leaping ahead, Louis. It will make Maurice creative! The man is as greedy as he is stupid, he won’t sense the trap, only the glory to be had,” Nikephoros cut off Salah. Sometimes, the Emperor was sure his Chancellor and
Megosvizieros was a dullard. “He’ll have to do an in kind service of some kind…”
Louis’ eyes grew big momentarily, and then the
Megasvizieros bared his fangs as well. “I see, Majesty.”
“And prepare three of my
tagmata and the militias of Seville, Cordoba, and Basiliopolis,” Nikephoros rattled off the ‘militias’ he knew were free from guard duty on the northern borders, his mind still thinking. Yes, this was as golden an opportunity as he was likely to ever see! “I want provisions stocked, arms prepared, and plans laid out by their
maliks.”
“When, and where to they depart to?” Salah raised an eyebrow, but he smile said he already knew.
“Hmm,” Nikephoros thought for a second. “How long will it take for those damned knights to gather their ‘Crusading’ force and find a way out of Barcelona to whatever destination they sail towards?” The Emperor allowed that slight knowing smile to return to his face.
“Ah… assuming Maurice is as, um,
creative, as Your Majesty imagines, a year for them to mobilize, and then a year for them to reach their… destination.”
“The
tagmata and militias should be prepared to depart in 28 months then. It’ll be the middle of January,” the Emperor walked over to the window in his study, eyes watching the hustle and bustle of distant Cordoba far below. “We should have the advtange of surprise. Get
Malik Andronikos ibn Farad. We’ll split our forces—I’ll take the imperial guard
tagmata and Cordoba militia with me, he’ll take the rest.”
“Ah, and where will you be going Majesty?” Louis asked.
Nikephoros chuckled slightly. “I’ll be going to Italy. I have a feeling that, with Michael’s army still intact and new invaders trampling over Sicily and Roman North Africa, that my cousins might welcome my arrival on the peninsula…”
So while Thomas and Gabriel had taken Konstantinopolis, Bardas’ son Michael holds out with a small contingent in Italy. As storm clouds gather in the East, plans hatch in the West, as the senior Basiline line makes a move. What is Nikephoros’ ultimate objective, and will his plans rid him of his pests and cause trouble in the East? More to come, when Rome AARisen continues!
